Demonspawn
by thegalacticpope
Summary: Raised by his ruthless mother, and groomed by Ra's al Ghul to become a master assassin and heir to a deadly empire, ten year old Ibn al Xu'ffasch is as coldhearted and deadly as the Demon's Head himself. But when Talia learns of a plot against the League of Assassins, she sends her son on his most terrifying mission yet: meeting his father, Bruce Wayne.
1. Mission: Prodigal

_Quick notes:_

 _Damian Wayne is only his English name that he assumes when he goes to English speaking countries. Damian has had a lot of names, but the name he called himself for the first portion of his life is Arabic. I'm mixing canon with a bit more reality here, as comic books tend to dilute cultures a bit. This will be pertinent to the story, so I'll fill you in here._

 _Ra's Al Ghul was born in the 14th century (canon compliant) in the city of Shiraz, now located in modern day Iran. Back then, Shiraz fell inter the rule of the Mongol Empire, specifically the khanate Ilkhanate, ruled by the House of Hulagu._

 _Ra's mothertongue is Persian, or Farsi. But nowadays speaks predominantly Arabic. Thus, so do his family._

 _Ra's al Ghul is pronounced RAHZ-al-HOOL. For English speakers it's hard to make the proper "h" sound. You need a bit of phlegm. Think kind of German sounding._  
 _Talia al Ghul is pronounced TALLY-an al-HOOL. Same h sound as Ra's._  
 _Ibn al Xu'ffasch is a misleading word to English speakers. It is pronounced BOON-show FAASH-ah._

 _I try to stick to reality when it comes to important things like culture, language, and religion. The rest is just fun comic book universe stuff._

 _Feel free to ask if you want to know how to pronounce something._

 _If you like the Justice League and the hero Captain Marvel, check out my other fic_ The Homeless Hero _._

 _As always, thank you for reading and I appreciate any reviews!_

* * *

 **5:24, 2 September**

 **Prēta Hēḍa Temple, Unknown Location in the Himalayas**

 **League of Assassins Headquarters**

"Everything you see before you will soon be yours. Do you understand what it is I am giving you?"

"Yes, Grandfather."

"Good."

Ra's al Ghul, ancient leader of the League of Shadows, master strategist and tactician, immortal nemesis of the Batman and Father of Assassins, let a small smile grace his ancient, weathered face as he watched his grandson appraise the impregnable walls of the Prēta Hēḍa. Ibn al Xu'ffasch was a masterpiece, one of the best assassins he'd ever trained. And by far the most advanced at the tender age of nine. Ra's dark gaze didn't miss his grandson's cold, calculating eyes darting from vantage point to vantage point, committing the sight to memory. Ra's al Ghul couldn't quite name what he was feeling, but he was fairly sure it was akin to pride.

He would have to punish the boy for it later.

"Grandfather?"

"Hm?" Although the young voice was steady, Ra's al Ghul could feel the hesitation emanating from the boy's small, stiff shoulders.

"Do you have to die for me to come into my inheritance?"

Ra's al Ghul laughed. It was a wicked sound, borne from centuries of darkness.

"No, my child. I have been planning an intricate plot for decades now. When you are ready to take your place as the Demon's Head, you will set in motion a strategy that will give us the world."

The boy seemed satisfied. "Good."

"Where you going to try to kill me if I had said yes?"

A thoughtful expression painted the boy's features as he contemplated the answer. "I wouldn't _try_ anything. I would wait until the right moment to strike, and claim my inheritance."

Ra's al Ghul smiled. It was not a warm expression.

"But I am truly glad that won't be necessary, Grandfather. Together we are much more formidable."

"I agree."

Although his feet made no sound, they both heard the clumsy approach of a trainee.

"Master, we have received warning from the northern outpost. A force approaches."

"Whose is it?"

"We don't kno-"

The trainee choked and couldn't finish his report, blood filling his mouth instead of useless words. Without so much as disturbing the air or even turning to face the boy, Ra's al Ghul flung a dagger, impaling the trainee's throat to the wall behind him. Ibn al Xu'ffasch closed his eyes in exasperation at the boy's fatal mistake. One should know better than to approach Ra's al Ghul without a full report.

"It is Slade Wilson. You are unfit for training. Being unable to see what was right in front of you." Ra's al Ghul sounded only mildly disappointed as he reprimanded the dying man. They waited in silence for him to finish the arduous task of dying. He did not die well.

Finally, as the trainee gurgled his last breath, Ra's spoke directly to his grandson.

"Go to your mother. They want the League. And we are its future, and so we shall part for now-although I don't foresee any difficulties. Fight well."

Ibn al Xu'ffasch was dismissed, that much was clear. He bowed to his Grandfather, and retreated inside the Temple to find his mother. Based on the time it would have taken for the scouts to relay this information, and the tension in his Grandfather's shoulders, he estimated they had ten minutes before Wilson's forces arrived.

He smirked. That was plenty of time.

 **5:39, 2 September**

 **Prēta Hēḍa Temple, Unknown Location in the Himalayas**

 **League of Assassins Headquarters**

It was a pleasant, crisp morning. Perfect for a fight, Ibn mused. He was obeying his grandfather, after a slight delay to the armory. He was trained in all manners of weapons but he preferred the sword. He was a master in every type of swordsmanship known to man, and even some disciplines that were forgotten. Although the katana was the most efficient, the scimitar the most graceful, and the spatha most adaptable, he preferred his twin Khopesh blades. They were brutal, deadly, and beautiful. He grinned in anticipation of using them.

But first, his orders. He needed to find Mother. Ibn was not afraid for himself, his mother, or his grandfather. They were each a formidable opponent. No, this was about efficiency. They needed to rid themselves of these intruders with minimal casualties. The trainees were expendable, but it would take time to gather and train new followers. Time was of the essence.

Talia al Ghul was not hard to find, fortifying the defenses and ordering about trainees.

"Mother."

She nodded in acknowledgement, dark eyes glittering dangerously.

"Are you ready, my son?"

He grinned viciously. "Of course. I'm looking forward to the exercise."

"If you're not fulfilling your potential, I can always send you to climb the Kangchenjunga when we're finished here," his mother said sweetly.

"Not to worry, Mother. I plan on getting a lot of exercise today."

"On guard. Here they come."

Ibn slowed his heartrate, took deep breaths, and listened. His mother was right, he could hear the heavy breaths and light footfalls of their approaching adversaries. He reached for his blades and brandished them, crouching in the cat-like grace the Egyptian Khopesh demanded of him.

The trainees noticed the shift and readied themselves as well. It was a good thing, too, as not moments later, black clad mercenaries burst into the room.

And the fun began.

Ibn al Xu'ffasch leapt forward, whirling. He slashed at knees and calves, and as his opponents collapsed, he'd rip open their throats with the hooks of his blades. Whirling and slashing with the curved edge of his swords, he brought down three Kevlar-clad men before they had time to react. He caught a woman's strike in the crook of one of his swords and spun away, taking her hand in one fluid motion. As she fell to the floor, clutching her bloody stump, he slashed her neck, severing her spine, already forgotten as he faced his next opponent.

The air filled with gunpowder, as Talia al Ghul showed her prowess. She was an expert marksman and had adapted her fighting stance to allow her to use her guns in close range combat as well as long distance sniping. She rammed her pistol into a man's stomach and pulled the trigger, his body jerking as the bullet sunk into his vertebrae. Each bullet was a life in the hands of Talia al Ghul.

With the fighting dying down-and the body count of Ibn al Xu'ffasch was a respectable 27-he launched himself onto one of the remaining mercenaries and brought them down with a few swift cuts. The man fell to his knees, and Ibn stood behind him, the hooks of his blades bricking either side of his jugular.

"Why are you here?" Ibn demanded. "What do you want from us?"

The man grinned, but his eyes were lifeless. "You stupid boy. We were just a distraction. Slade himself is dispatching Ra's al Ghul right now. And then he will take his place as the rightful-"

Ibn dug in the hooks and ripped out the man's vocal cords in one fluid motion. He was running before the body even hit the ground.

He darted across the room, dispatching enemies where needed, heart pounding. Surely his Grandfather was capable of dealing with one misguided protégée? He hadn't survived 600 years for nothing.

"Do not go to him! You are the future!" he heard his mother clearly as he ducked out of the room, but chose to ignore her. She was dealing with the last of the intruders and would follow shortly.

Sprinting through the winding, ancient halls, Ibn was guided by his honed senses to where the fighting was densest. He know Ra's al Ghul would not back down from any challenge and would be in the thick of the battle.

Ibn al Xu'ffasch darted into the Demon Head's receiving chambers, and saw his grandfather's most loyal assassins tearing apart a thicket of highly trained mercenaries. On the far side, on the dais, Ra's al Ghul was battling with a masked man. It was the most impressive display of skill Ibn had ever seen. As he ducked under a bayonet, and jumped over a fallen assassin, his eyes never left this grandfather's whirring sword.

But then, through the crash of steel and constant gunfire he heard a deep voice from behind the mask.

"Why don't we take this elsewhere?"

Slade Wilson turned and activated the secret passageway that led to the secret location of the Lazarus Pit. Nobody knew of its location apart from the topmost assassins. How did he know it was there?

Ra's al Ghul's grin was feral as he launched himself into the darkness, eager to follow his opponent.

The battle was turning in their favor, and Ibn knew the assassins were capable of defeating the remaining mercenaries on their own. He was going after his grandfather.

Ibn trotted silently through the passageway, relying on memory to guide him through the implacable darkness. The air was much cooler in the tunnel, as it sloped into the heart of the mountain. As he neared the Pit, he could hear the clang of steel. Ra's must have reinitiated the fight with Slade Wilson. He increased his pace. Wilson may be formidable, but he would fall against two Master Swordsmen.

The sounds of their battle grew louder and a faint green light filled the passage. Ibn slowed, wanting to assess the situation before interrupting. Grandfather may want a clean kill for himself and only resent his assistance. But as he peered through the passage, the sight that met his gaze had him stop short.

Ra's al Ghul was at Slade Wilson's mercy. His grandfather was kneeling, his sword on the ground out of his reach. Wilson stood before him and had removed his bicolored mask. His face was contorted with rage.

"You can't kill me, boy." Ra's al Ghul spoke with an eerie calm.

Wilson ground his teeth, but smiled savagely.

"Not according to the new rules, old man."

Before Ibn could react, Wilson shoved a glittering dagger into his grandfather's heart. Instead of crumpling to the ground, he surged to his feet.

"You think," he grunted. "That a mere dagger is enough to-"

Ibn watched in horror as Ra's al Ghul's body burst into flame. Even from this distance, he could tell it was no natural blaze. The flames were too red, the inferno whispered prickling thoughts into his head that he couldn't quite understand. It made him feel nauseous in the same way the Lazarus Pit made him weak. It was clear: Wilson had used ancient magic.

Ibn surged from the passageway opening, and raced toward the enemy. Wilson stood, watching as Ra's al Ghul crumpled to the floor, still ablaze. Three meters.

 _Clang_.

So fast that Ibn barely registered the movement, Wilson had unsheathed his sword and met Ibn's strike evenly.

"Hello, little boy. Come to see the show?"

Ibn al Xu'ffasch snarled. He was not a little boy.

They fought. Ibn used every move in his repertoire and even made up some new ones. He whirled, ducked, slashed, and flipped but he could not seem to get the upper hand. Wilson was a formidable opponent. Distracting him with a kick to his knees, Wilson swung his blade down in a powerful arc that would have severed his arm, had he not deflected the motion with the curve of the Khopesh blade. He wasn't quite fast enough and the blade bit into his shoulder. Ibn grunted and dislodged himself from Wilson's grip, dodged another blow, and used Wilson's sword as a springboard.

Ibn slashed as he leapt and was satisfied to feel the hook of his blade drag across flesh. Rolling on impact, he sprung up, preparing for the counterstrike.

It never came.

They faced each other, breathing heavily. He could see Wilson calculating his odds. Fighting Ibn al Xu'ffasch was not going to be quick or easy. Wilson needed to make his getaway before reinforcements could arrive. Their eyes locked, they both ignored Ra's al Ghul's charred body twitched a few paces away, the unnatural fire dying with its kindling.

"Until next time, boy."

Ibn knew how Wilson was going to make his getaway a fraction before he saw the flash of a handful of smoke stones. Covering his mouth and nose as the thick smoke rose in the air, he watched Wilson disappear using the smoke as the cover he needed to escape.

Ibn didn't waste time chasing him. Slade Wilson was long gone. Instead, he turned toward the mangled body of Ra's al Ghul.

"Grandfather!" Ibn crashed to his knees next to the charred body. He wasn't breathing.

His hands shook as he lodged them under his grandfather's body, the skin beneath his fingers crusty and peeling. Blood dripped from his shoulder onto his body armor as he hefted Ra's al Ghul into his arms. He staggered under the dead weight as he marched slowly toward the Pit.

Ibn heard his mother coming long before he saw her. As much as she tried to hide it, he heard her soft intake of breath as she understood the sight before her. A soft weight fell on his shoulder.

"Son. He's gone." His mother's words made no sense. Ra's al Ghul was never gone so long as the Lazarus Pit existed.

"We just need to get him into the Pit, Mother. Grandfather will be fine."

A look of sadness flashed across her face.

"No, Ibn. The magic used to do this can't be undone by the Pit. Put him down."

His head swam as he sunk to his knees. He let his grandfather's corpse thunk to the ground.

"But he said he had a plan. He can't die."

"The plan is still in motion, love. For now, we need to leave."

Ibn looked at her sharply. "Leave? We can't leave. We need to stay and rebuild the League."

"Euyun will take care of that for now. You and I have somewhere we need to be."

The next hours passed in a daze, as Talia managed the assassins and began the cleanup of the Temple. His shoulder had been treated with water from the Pit. He had looked questioningly at his mother as she applied the salve. She usually preferred he suffered his wounds naturally. Something was different this time. That had been hours ago. Ibn watched his mother closely as he cleaned his blades, polishing them of blood and gore. He felt hollow inside.

It was midday when his pack thudded at his feet. He glanced up. His mother was in her night stealth gear. Her own pack was firmly secured to her shoulders.

"Get up, son. Gather the rest of your gear. We leave in half an hour." She grinned at her son, and her teeth glinted in the low light. "Didn't I promise you a climb?"

Ibn al Xu'ffasch sighed as he secured his weapons, and changed into his appropriate climbing gear. He knew he would not return to Prēta Hēḍa for some time if his mother's behavior was any indication.

The room he usually slept in was bare, even with all of his personal effects removed it looked the same. He joined his mother.

"You will come back to this place, my son. But for now, say your partings."

Ibn al Xu'ffasch bowed and murmured a blessing and a farewell to the ancient temple.

Then they melted into the mountainside.

 **16:52, 2 September**

 **Steep Mountainside, Unknown Location in the Himalayas**

Talia al Ghul knew without a doubt that they were after her son. Her father might be immortal and invincible, but that did not mean she should take unnecessary risks. She didn't care that he could come back from death as many times as he chose. She would be damned before she let anyone hurt her son.

Not that he needed protecting. Glancing below her, she watched as he expertly climbed the mountain. Ra's had a plan, but as was his way, he had not shared with her all the parts. She didn't know what Wilson had to do with it, but she was sure her father would rise again to finish what he started.

In the meantime, Talia was going to find the traitors who betrayed the League. The bastards had found their Temple, which alone wouldn't be suspicious. Its general location was known to the select locals who ventured deep into the mountains. They maintained their silence on pain of death. A slow one, at that. It wouldn't be a stretch for the mercenaries to torture the information out of one of them. But that did not account for the fact that Slade Wilson's men knew their way around the Temple. These mercenaries moved too quickly, too casually. They knew the inner passageways and ancient halls.

They were betrayed. And Wilson was after her son.

Talia knew she could not maintain the League while overseeing her son's training and maintaining his safety.

Which left her only one choice.

They were not going to like it.

 **0:56, 3 September**

 **Unknown Location in the Himalayas**

 **League of Assassins Safe House**

"You want me to _what_?"

"Damian, dear, I know you heard me just fine. Don't be childish. It's beneath you."

"But Mother-"

 _Crack._

Ibn al Xu'ffasch pressed a hand to his swollen cheek, and swallowed a mouthful of blood. The blow wasn't meant to do serious damage, just humiliate him. It was just unlucky that his mouth had been open in protest when her hand made contact, his teeth easily slicing through his inner cheek. He was mortified that his mother was reduced to treating him like a child.

"You have gone by many names, my son, but it is time for you to claim your father's blood. This name you will keep with you. It belongs to you as much as the name I gave you. Get used to it."

Ibn nodded dutifully. "Yes, Mother."

"Good." Talia bent and kissed his forehead. "Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow we head to Gotham."

Ibn al Xu'ffasch dressed for bed. He only allowed himself to think in English. He had a flawless accent, of course, and spoke with great care. Ra's al Ghul did not permit any sort of half-heartedness within is walls. But it would be a change to speak primarily in English for however many months his mother was planning on dumping him on the other side of the world.

Falling asleep was an easy task for Ibn al Xu'ffasch. It was a skill to be acquired: training oneself to descend into a light sleep that disconnected the mind from the body, allowing an assassin rest unhindered by burdensome night terrors. He dreamt of his Grandfather's death, not an uncommon occurrence for him, because he'd seen it before. But this time was different. The eerie green spirits of the Lazarus Pit, which normally chanted in faint ancient Sumerian, now chanted softly in English as Ra's al Ghul's mangled corpse was grotesquely returned to life.

To an observer, the boy in the bed would look like an ordinary nine year-old: curled on his side, breathing evenly, the innocent puzzled frown of a child furrowing his sleeping face. An observant onlooker might notice that he remained completely, unnaturally still while he slept, the only shift in movement the steady rise and fall of his chest. There was no indication of the morbid specters plaguing his dreams, or the incredible violence of which he was capable. He slept through the night.

When he woke up, he was Damian Wayne.

* * *

 _Find out more about Khopesh at a website called My Armory . com and search for The Khopesh_


	2. Congratulations, You're A Dad! (Again)

_In comic book canon Gotham City is located in New Jersey. I changed this to South Dakota for several reasons. One is for diversity's sake. New York City, Metropolis, and Gotham City can't all be on the East Coast. First of all, it's too crowded. There would be nowhere to even put a city. Second of all, it doesn't make sense for superheroes to all be crowded together in a relatively small area, such as the northern east coast of the United States. I chose South Dakota, because frankly, there's not a lot there. My Gotham City is located on a crook in the Missouri River, so it's surrounded on 3 sides by water. There's also a lake made by an upstream reservoir. And for my purposes the northern Missouri river is a lot wider with significant flow. In a world where Batman and the Lazarus Pit exist, I'm sure you can suspend your disbelief on some tiny geographical changes I've made._

* * *

 **23:44, 3 September**

 **Gotham City Marina, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America**

 **Bruce Wayne's Personal Yacht**

Damian looked around the docks, unimpressed with the city so far. It was unwelcoming, cold, and _filthy._ Inhospitable, he could handle. Unhygienic, he could not. Even the river had a rancid stench that was enhanced by the biting cold.

"And _how_ long do you plan on dumping me here, Mother?" he asked, voice ringing with disdain.

"You'll be here as long as I need you to be, Damian," Talia's voice was muffled by the bobby pins in her mouth as she pinned up her thick, dark hair. After hours of rough travel, and a transatlantic flight she knew she wasn't the picture of attraction in her dark League uniform and thick Kevlar armor, but she wanted to make an effort. She hadn't seen him in years, after all. And who knows, maybe he found exhausted but deadly attractive. Bruce Wayne _did_ have eccentric tastes.

She turned to look at her son, in his identical dark uniform-although his had a hood, his unusual electric blue eyes were a certain giveaway amongst the dark eyed natives of Nepal, and her son preferred the shadows. Damian was leaning against the hull of the boat, looking carefully bored. But the tension in his shoulders gave him away; he was nervous.

"Remember, Damian, conceal yourself when he gets here, and do not give yourself away until I choose to reveal you. He doesn't know you exist. I need to talk to him first. You'll stay with him for awhile. For now, I just want you to learn from him. I will contact you by the end of the month with further instructions."

A nod. "Very well, Mother. I will do my best to put my time to good use."

Talia smiled at him. As loathe as she was to admit it, she would miss him. But he was safer with his father.

She held her arms open for a hug. "Come here."

Reluctantly pushing himself away from the wall, Damian accepted his mother's brisk embrace.

"Make me proud, love."

Damian nodded, and retreated to the shadows of the stairwell. There was no need to tell him to hide: he heard the soft swoosh of a cape as clearly as she did.

It was time.

 **23:49, 3 September**

 **Gotham City Marina, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America**

 **Bruce Wayne's Personal Yacht**

"Talia."

That was all the greeting he offered. She squelched the disappointment that dared to twinge her heart, and offered him the same, cool, disinterested tone.

"Bruce."

He strode forward, dark cape billowing silently behind him. Fleetingly, she was glad she had pinned up her hair. Without her mesmerizing beauty she knew she looked exhausted, dirty, and a touch scared. In comparison, he looked as stoic and immovable as ever.

"I was surprised to hear from you. Even more surprised to hear you were in Gotham. Why?"

Although his deep timbre sounded disinterested, Talia could hear the threat in his voice as clear as day. She sighed dramatically. "Relax, Bruce. I'm not staying. In fact, I'll be gone tomorrow. I have to get back…"

The Batman stared at her, and she could feel his curiosity. She was sure she caught a flash of his electric blue eyes behind his mask. "Who did Ra's send you to kill this time? Not me, I hope."

Talia sunk unto the cushioned booth of the kitchen table and blew escaped strands of hair out of her face. Exhaustion radiated from her core, and she let a little of it show. Bruce, as intimidating and scary as he was as Batman, had a soft spot for her was a sucker for a damsel in distress. Even one who could kill him as easily as she took a breath.

"My father is dead."

Even to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow with exhaustion. Good. Talia watched Bruce for his reaction. He hadn't moved from the spot he had chosen when he entered the cabin of the boat. She could see him processing this information.

"So just take him to the-"

"For real. He's not coming back."

There was a heavy silence. Finally, Bruce sighed. The question was in the air, and she answered, although he had yet to ask.

"He was killed with the same grade of Sumerian magic that created the Pits themselves. Ra's al Ghul cannot return."

"So you came all the way here to tell me?" Despite herself, Talia smiled. Bruce wasn't curious, he was probing for the truth. What a fine assassin he would have made.

"No, my dear. I came here because I have a surprise," she said, as he stiffened. Not wanting him to dismiss her so easily, she let more exhaustion color her face. "And… I need your help."

It worked. Bruce paused, but slowly approached. He still kept his distance, but she could tell she had snared him.

"What happened, Talia?"

"Do you remember the last time we saw each other?" she said, diverting him. She needed him to remember, to pity her.

"I believe you waved after you tried to shoot me from across the Thames."

Talia laughed. It was genuine and it surprised her son, who was hiding in the air conditioning vent above their conversation. Damian could count on one hand the times he had heard her sincerely laugh.

"London doesn't count, my dear. And if I had wanted to shoot you, you would have been shot. I just wanted your attention."

The Batman grunted, and Damian assumed he was acknowledging her point. He couldn't get a good look at his father, who was swathed in shadows and blocked by the grimy vent, but he could sense the companionship between them. For the first time, he realized how they could have been a… couple. The thought was unfathomable.

"No, I was referring to the time before that. If I recall, you enjoyed the last encounter much more."

"Maybe I would have, if I remembered it all."

Damian knew he was a calculated plan, and not conceived from any form of love. He also knew that his mother had retrieved half of his DNA without his father's consent. What surprised him was how bitter his father sounded about the fact.

"I didn't come here to argue," Talia sighed, letting her head fall into her hands. She massaged her temples. "I just wanted you to remember…" She trailed off, not yet willing to reveal her son. "Someone planned this. Someone wants control of the League. They planned to kill my father… it was all orchestrated too well. I need to weed out the traitors. I need to rebuild the League one member at a time, killing anyone unfaithful. But that's what he knows I'd do…"

"He?"

"Slade Wilson. He's the one who murdered Father."

The name had Bruce stop cold. It wasn't a name he had planned on hearing ever again. "Slade?"

Talia nodded, peering at him through her damned hair. The bobby pins had not helped, and it was escaping their hold. She sighed and let her hair down, not caring if the dark locks defied gravity. She was too tired to care.

"He knows that this is what I'd do at any sign of betrayal. He knows it's coming. And I'll be damned if I let my father's life's work fall into his grubby little hands."

"If by 'life's work' you mean centuries of cultivating the deadliest order of assassins known to mankind-"

Talia flapped her hand at him, too tired to argue.

"Wilson knows that's what I'd do and he knows where I'll be. We'd be in constant danger."

"We?" Bruce was definitely curious now.

Talia took a deep breath, heart racing. She glanced up at the ceiling, nodding to her son. Damian knew she couldn't see him, but he nodded back. This was it.

"My son. Damian," she called. "Come out and meet Bruce."

Damian smiled as he lifted the grate and dropped to the ground beside his mother. The Batman was completely still, no perceptible movement. He must be holding his breath, Damian concluded. He glanced at his mother. She was slightly green, eyes locked onto what was visible of Batman's face in anticipation. She looked like she might be ill.

Turning his gaze to his father, he was glad he had pulled up his hood when he retreated into the vent. Damian could feel the man's heavy gaze inspecting him. He crossed his arms impatiently.

"You have a son." It wasn't a question, although to those who knew him Bruce Wayne sounded thoroughly bewildered.

Talia cleared her throat. "Well, that's the thing. You see… Well- Actually, _we_ have a son."

Damian had never seen his mother at a loss for words. He glanced at her. The stiffness of her spine and hard angle of her frown told him she was exhausted. She needed to sleep. He turned his attention to his father to gauge his reaction. There was no discernable change besides a slight widening of the eyes and a half a step backwards. Figuring it was his cue, he stepped forward and lowered his hood.

"I'm sure you're surprised, Father," he said. "I've been looking forward to meeting you." An inspection was in order, and Damian circled his father, memorizing, appraising, and wondering what would possess such a powerful man to wear such an… interesting suit. He concluded it must be practical and have a multitude of hidden uses for it to be considered. Circling back to face his father, Damian looked him square in the eye.

"Mother says you are a formidable adversary. I look forward to learning from you."

Bruce Wayne was not an easy man to surprise. This had done it. Even as he registered the boy's thick raven hair, he saw the classic Wayne cowlick. He saw the deep tawny skin, but also registered his own piercing blue gaze being coming from the child in front of him.

"You expect me to believe this?" his voice sounded gruffer than he meant it to. "You disappear for over a decade, and then come back with a son, tell me he's mine, and expect me to buy it?"

" _-tt-_ " The boy scoffed at him. Talia's eyes were shadowed, and they glinted dangerously. She knew. He could tell that she knew, that behind his mask, he believed her. She reached forward and plopped a manila file folder in front of him.

"A DNA test," she said calmly. "Of course, feel free to conduct your own at your leisure."

"You assume that I'd be willing to entertain this madness."

Talia's eyes grew cold. "I know you, Bruce. And whether you believe that he's your son or not, he _is_ a nine year old boy and Slade Wilson wants him dead. He cannot stay with me in the League of Shadows until I uncover Wilson's plot and dispose of the traitors."

" _-tt-_ " The boy scoffed again, as if his mother were embarrassing him, and not as if he were running for his life.

Bruce sighed. He knew he was defeated-he believed her. "How long will you be?"

Talia rubbed her face. "I don't know. But I have to get back. There's work to be done."

"What will I do with him?"

Talia smiled. The boy scowled. "Train him, Bruce. He already has the makings of the finest assassin the League has ever seen. See if there's anything left for you to teach him."

"But-"

Talia stood abruptly, cutting him off. "I need to go. I don't have time for this."

The boy stepped forward and nodded to Talia, face as serious as the grave. "Farewell, Mother. Travel safely. Work swiftly. I look forward to rejoining you."

Talia looked at her son, and her face softened. Bruce could never tell with her, but he believed it was genuine. She truly loved the boy.

She spoke the next words for her son, but her gaze locked with his. "Learn from your father. He is very wise. I will return for you when it is safe."

Damian stepped forward and grasped his mother's forearm in the traditional assassin greeting. "Qad alzzilal tarshaduk," his voice cracked as he formally said goodbye, and although he would never admit it, he was glad for his mother's embrace while they had been alone.

"W yajuz lil alzzalam tajlub lak almnzla." Talia's dark eyes glittered as she gazed at her son for the last time in what she knew would be a long time. She turned to Bruce. "Take care of him."

And then she was gone.

 **00:20, 4 September**

 **Gotham City Marina, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America**

 **Marina Docks**

They watched in silence as Talia disappeared into the dark fog over the river. Bruce shifted uncomfortably.

The boy spoke first. "So, Mother has made me your responsibility."

He nodded. "It appears that way."

Silence descended upon them once again, as they both came to terms with the new arrangement.

"Hm. Well, then. I guess it's time to introduce you to the Manor."

"I'll go grab my gear."

Damian rushed down the stairs to the bedroom. He'd thrown his bag on it as soon as he'd gotten here, eager to explore and find the best vantage points. It's familiar weight comforted him. His swords were never far from his reach. Upstairs, he heard his father talking into his communication system. Probably warning the servants of his arrival. Damian rejoined him in less that two minutes.

"Ready?"

Damian didn't deign the question with a response. Of course he was ready. What a stupid question.

The crisp autumn air bit into them as they emerged from the cabin and crossed the deck. His father gracefully stepped from the boat to the dock and turned, in what Damian knew was an effort to help him to shore. But even the thought of needing help to do something so simple was ridiculous to him, and he was standing next to his father before the man could even complete the motion.

"So… Damian, huh?" Although his face betrayed no emotion, his father's voice echoed with awkward apprehension, and… was that a little bit of guilt?

His voice was dripping with sarcasm as he answered the next ridiculous question. Wasn't this man supposed to be smart? "Yes, Father. My name is Damian. Damian Wayne."

Bruce coughed, trying to hide his astonishment at this announcement. The boy claimed _his_ name?

But Damian was not done yet. "And you, Father, are Bruce Wayne. Now that we've got the useless questions out of the way, I am impatient to leave this place."

Bruce nodded, and strode more quickly in the direction of the Batmobile. Good lord, Alfred was going to have a conniption when he met this kid. _My kid,_ he thought, still dumbstruck by the notion. They exited the marina, and Damian saw the bat symbol glinting off the hood of the Batmobile in the moonlight.

"I take it this vehicle is yours, Father? Your coat of arms seems to be everywhere," Damian said, perfectly serious. Hands clasped firmly behind his back, he inspected it. Bruce saw the glance the boy shot at him from the corner of his eye. "You built this?"

Bruce grunted in acknowledgement, and strode to the driver's side, eager to get home.

"That won't be necessary, Father. I'll drive."

"No." Bruce didn't miss a beat. He knew the boy would test him.

"I know how."

"No." Bruce slid into the driver's side. A few seconds later the passenger side door opened, and Damian slid in with a huff.

"Drive."

* * *

 _The greetings are ones I made up._

 _May the shadows guide you. - Qad alzzilal tarshaduk - قد الظلال ترشدك. - GHOOD-fyeel-ELL-tor-she-DOOK-ee_

 _And may darkness guide you home. - W yajuz lil alzzalam tajlub lak almnzla. - ويجوز للالظلام تجلب لك المنزل. - OY-yah-ZJU-zah-lil-AHL-za-LAHM TAH-zju-boo-lack-AL-men-zell_


	3. Tinker, Tailor, Butler, Spy

_A pesh-kabz is an Afghan dagger specifically made to puncture armor. It has a curved blade._ _Baguazhang is a real type of martial art. It is one of the three main Chinese martial arts of the Wudang school. It focuses on circular movements and changing direction. Baguazhang contains an extremely wide variety of techniques as well as weapons, including various strikes (with palm, fist, elbow, fingers, etc.), kicks, joint locks, throws, and distinctively evasive circular footwork. As such, Baguazhang is considered neither a purely striking nor a purely grappling martial art._ _A bagua dao is a type of broadsword._

 **1:28, 4 September  
Wayne Manor, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
The Batcave**

As soon as the Batmobile skidded to a halt, Damian had disappeared out the door. They hadn't said much on the drive, but Bruce could sense the boy's excitement. If he had been given the choice, he would have preferred to take Damian to the Manor the civilian way, let him see the iron gates and the house slightly elevated on the hill. But he had been on patrol when Alfred had called him, claiming he had a message from _Talia al Ghul_ of all people. And patrol meant being Batman, and that meant the Batmobile. And Batman couldn't be seen visiting the Wayne Manor on a whim. Bruce sighed. His life was never easy.

Damian was scanning the Batcave, likely memorizing each and every crevice. His hands were clasped behind his back in a gesture that seemed too old for him.

"Adequate security, Father, although the place is a bit… macabre."

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. That was a new one.

"Master Bruce, how was your reunion with-"

There were not a lot of things that could leave Alfred Pennyworth speechless, but the little boy standing next to the Batmobile did it. It was not the fact there was a boy in the Batcave, no, Alfred had lived long enough to recognize Bruce's penchant for adopting orphans. It was this boy himself that had made him stop short. The boy had heard his question, noticed him staring, and crossed his arms and aimed a glare at Alfred that would have levelled a lesser man. Alfred would have sworn a young Master Bruce stood in front of him, if it weren't for the caped figure watching the exchange in quiet observance.

It wasn't Bruce, so it could only mean one thing.

Oh, dear.

"Alfred, this is Damian." Alfred was watching Bruce carefully, but he had schooled his face into a deliberately blank expression.

"Pleased to meet you, Master Damian," Alfred said politely. He shot Bruce a look. They would be having words, and soon.

Damian surveyed the man in front of him, clearly not impressed. "Is this your head servant, Father?"

It was just as difficult to surprise Alfred as it was to render him speechless, and he had his suspicions as soon as he saw the boy but hearing the words… he was almost surprised enough to ignore the 'servant' comment. Almost.

"Damian, Alfred is not a servant," Bruce sounded exasperated.

 _"-tt-"_ Damian returned his skeptical gaze to the old man. "Then what is his purpose?"

Alfred prepared to list his full qualifications to the young master, taken aback. He was _quite_ useful thank you very much. Bruce beat him to it.

"Alfred is a friend." Bruce slid off his cowl and made his way to the Batcomputer, selecting his files on the League of Assassins.

" _Friend_ ," the child muttered, like he didn't believe it. Alfred supposed if one didn't know Bruce personally the idea could seem a little absurd.

"Hm," Bruce responded, adding to the file on the screen. Alfred saw him add 'DECEASED' to Ra's al Ghul's file. They had much to discuss.

"Why don't I take Master Damian upstairs and make him comfortable, hm? You can join us when you are finished here, Master Bruce."

"Hm."

"Follow me, Mast-" Alfred cut himself off. Damian was already making his way up the stairs. His sigh was deep and tired, but he quickened his pace to follow.

* * *

 **1:34, 4 September  
Wayne Manor, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
Bruce's Office**

Damian Wayne was not sure what to make of his Father's 'friend,' but after observing him for a few minutes, he had determined that the old man, like Grandfather, was deceptively strong and well-trained. His mother had never mentioned a 'friend,' probably thought it irrelevant information. But if he would be interacting with this man, who knew his Father so well, he would have to start gathering intel immediately. Glancing behind him, Damian noticed the ease with which the old man climbed the stairs, exhibiting none of the stiffness he saw in all old people, save his Grandfather, and knew this man was more than he seemed.

He made it to the top of the stairs and waited for the old man to join him in the hall. He guided Damian down a long hallway.

"I do not understand your purpose here," Damian told him. "My father is not the type to keep 'friends.'"

Alfred gave him a thin-lipped smile. "I am the butler and housekeeper, and I tend the house and any cooking or cleaning Master Bruce may require."

Damian nodded, contemplating. So the old man did function as a servant, but Father regarded him in a higher position. An advisor, maybe? It was a complicated relationship, but he was certain he would understand it through observation.

"This will be your room for the duration of your stay with us. I do hope it is to your liking."

Damian could detect the sarcasm in the butler's voice; the room they entered was far more lavish than the one he kept at the Prēta Hēḍa. It was large and impersonal, and it was clear no one had ever lived there before. The bed was ridiculously large for one person and far too plush. Damian approved of the mahogany desk pushed up against a large window overlooking a garden. It would provide good natural light for his studies and his projects. The bookshelf in the corner was filled with books and he walked over, pulling one from the shelf. _Sovran Maxims._ Damian scoffed. Epicurean philosophy was far too optimistic and naïve for his tastes, even if it had been a foundation for Plutarch. He would need to go through the shelves and restock them with _useful_ books. And if he was going to read philosophy then he was going to read Abu Nasr Muhammad al-Farabi.

"It will do," Damian said, lacing his voice with the practiced disdain that the butler was expecting. He imagined the old man thought he had grown up a prince. In a sense, that was true: Mother had provided him with only the best instructors and anything he needed to further his training. However, material possessions could be coveted. Why should he covet a house when he could always get another? Why should he grow attached to comfort if it served him no purpose? It was a weakness that Talia had not tolerated.

The strap of his bag was digging into his shoulder, and he flopped in on the bed reaching to unclip it and begin unpacking. His hand stopped short of the leather clasps, and he turned sharply to the butler. "Is there anything else?"

Knowing when he was being dismissed, Alfred raised an eyebrow at the boy. "The bathroom is down the hall, third door on the right. Fresh linens are in the cupboard should you require them. I will be tending to your father. Should you need any assistance do not hesitate to ask."

And with that, the butler retreated, closing the door behind him.

Damian immediately inspected his room for surveillance, and finding none, began to unpack. He hadn't brought much with him, just an extra stealth uniform, his Kevlar armor, and his nicest linen thobe and cotton pants, and his leather shoes, storing them all on a single shelf in the massive closet. That was all he had with him when it came to clothing, and he supposed he'd have to ask his father for more appropriate Western clothing. He'd deal with that later.

He reached for his leather satchel, and unfolded it, revealing his cache of weapons. A few small steel daggers that he stashed in strategic locations: one on the night stand near the bed, one under the desk, and one hidden on the shelf. He hid his throwing stars in the dreaded and ugly curtains. He unsheathed his pesh-kabz, checking to make sure it was sharpened, even though he knew it was. The curved blade glinted wickedly in the low light, and Damian sheathed it and slid it into the bindings on his calf. Lastly he pulled his twin Khopesh blades from his pack. These he displayed proudly on his desk. Father likely already knew he had them, so there was no point in trying to hide. He hid various other swords and daggers throughout his room, with varying degrees of deception.

Satisfied with the fact he'd 'settled in,' Damian made his way to the washroom, and scrubbed his face with cold water. It had been a long day, but there was much he still needed to do.

Feeling refreshed he retraced their steps and descended down into his father's cave, slowing as he heard his Father and the butler talking in low voices.

"…test to make sure. Until then, I need to continue my patrol for tonight. Cobblepot's up to something, and I can't afford to take a night off, Alfred."

"Very well, sir. I can keep an eye on Master Damian while you're away."

"I do not need anyone to keep an _eye_ on me, Father," he said loudly, continuing down the stairs. It was clear he had not startled either of them.

"I'm sure you don't. But Alfred will keep you company anyway."

" _-tt-_ " Damian scoffed, but accepted his Father's decision. It would give him time to learn more about the butler and explore without Batman's watchful gaze.

Bruce stood from his chair at the Batcomputer and the look he shared with Alfred did not go unnoticed by Damian. His Father pulled his cowl over his head and strode to the Batmobile, sliding in.

"I'll be back late. Take your time and look around… we'll talk tomorrow."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

 **2:03, 4 September  
Wayne Manor, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
The Kitchen**

Exhaustion weighed down his bones, but Damian allowed Alfred to give him a full tour of the Manor. Much of it was clearly unused, but was immaculately tidy. If he was at all impressed, he hid it, approving at least, of the Manor's impeccable cleanliness. He wasn't much interested in the house, besides kn **o** wing the best vantage points and potential escape routes. He did see a Bösendorfer grand in a formal sitting room and made note, hoping to please his mother by mastering Balakriev before they next met.

He was most interested in Father's combat training area, equipped with most every type of sparring and training equipment to maintain any regimen he had ever learned. Eager as Damian was to use it, the butler was insistent they continue their tour.

At last, they were in the kitchen, and Damian popped up on a leather barstool overlooking a granite island. The kitchen was so very… _American_ , it would take some getting used to.

"Could I interest you in a cup of tea?"

"Chai."

Damian watched with hawk-like interest as the butler prepared a pot of tea correctly, even adding a pinch of rose petals to the leaves to steep. He begrudgingly was impressed, and when the butler placed a steaming cup in front of him, and he cautiously took a sip. The tea leaves themselves were not the quality he was used to, but it had brewed excellently and the rose petals added a refreshing flavor. Damian closed his eyes, enjoying the familiarity of the tea.

"Is the tea to your liking?"

Damian gave the butler a hard look. "It is acceptable. In the future I would recommend a higher quality brew, but it will do for now."

They finished their cups in silence.

"I'm sure you are quite exhausted do to your travels. I would be happy to turn down the bedsheets for you."

"Nonsense. I will await my Father's return. We have much to discuss."

The butler raised a gray eyebrow at him. "He will not return for some time."

"I do not see why I cannot go with him. I am trained for such missions. Even with targets as… interesting as those in Gotham."

"You know the type?"

"Of course. I've kept tabs on Gotham's key players for years now. It is certainly an… interesting place, albeit a little chaotic."

"Indeed."

"I will train until my Father's arrival."

"Master Damian, I am quite sure Master Bruce does not want you engaged in any strenuous activity until he returns."

Damian glared. "And who are _you_ to decide things for me?"

"Formerly Captain Alfred T. C. Pennyworth of the SAS, G Squadron 24th Troop if you must know. I worked directly under the Queen herself, and I was close friends with the Waynes and raised your father myself. I fancy I have many sk-"

"Linguist?" Damian interrupted. He hadn't meant to insult the old butler; he had been raised to see the world as it was and his own place in it. He hadn't been questioning Pennyworth's authority, just asking where he fit into the structure. Father's chosen companions should have their uses, he didn't doubt that.

Besides, if he had been trying to insult the old man, Pennyworth would know it.

If Alfred was startled by his knowledge of the workings of the SAS, he quickly recovered. "Medic."

"Hm. Makes sense. Did you take part in Black September?"

"How-that information is still classified."

Damian arched an eyebrow. "My Grandfather is Ra's al Ghul."

"Hm. Fair enough."

"Will you tell me about it?"

Alfred sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He seemed to make up his mind. "I'll put on another pot of tea."

* * *

 **4:21 4 September  
Wayne Manor, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
The Batcave**

Bruce returned to the cave, frustrated and slightly bruised but otherwise uninjured from patrol tonight. He had tracked down a few of the Penguin's henchmen trying to discern his final game plan and stopped an attempted robbery and a mugging. It had been a slow night.

The Batmobile skidded to a halt, and he hopped out, heading for the Batcomputer. First he checked on the DNA sequencing, though he knew it should take a few more hours. It was still synthesizing, but it should tell him whether or not Talia was lying about Damian's lineage.

He spent a few more minutes updating his files with the new intel he'd gained from that evening, and then took off his uniform, exchanging it for a comfortable pair of jeans and a sweater Tim had given him for this last Father's Day. Bruce made his way to the Manor quietly, not wanting to disturb Alfred if he had finally decided to get some rest.

His old friend's deep voice came from the kitchen, and Bruce entered to a surprising sight. Alfred and Damian were sitting on barstools, empty teacups forgotten, and Alfred was animatedly talking about his time in the SAS. Bruce was surprised. He didn't usually share that information with the boys. Damian's head rested on his hand, looking aloof but he listened with an interest that belied his curiosity.

"And then, the old bugger, he actually tried to _shoot_ -"

Bruce cleared his throat, not wanting to interrupt.

Damian glanced his way lazily, as if trying to convey the fact he had noticed Bruce's presence ages ago. "Father."

Bruce nodded in greeting.

"How were your exploits tonight Master Bruce? Any leads pan out?"

"Didn't get much. Cobblepot's up to something, and no one is willing to share."

"Did you get the results of the DNA sequencing?" Damian asked.

Bruce looked at him for awhile before answering slowly. "Not yet."

"Let me know when you do. I'm curious to see the results myself. This could very well be another test of hers."

Bruce raised his eyebrows at that. "I'm surprised you're still awake."

"There were a few things I wanted to discuss with you."

"Okay." Damian looked sharply at Alfred, who sniffed but rose elegantly from his seat. "I suggest you both get some rest when you are finished with your discussion. I, myself, am in need of an overdue sleep. Goodnight."

After Alfred had left the room, Damian turned to his Father, and watched him closely. He hadn't had time before to really _look_ at Bruce without the cowl. He could see their similarities, the thick dark hair with a cowlick, broad face, and blue eyes. But he was also acutely aware of their differences. He was much more brown than his father, had higher and more prominent cheekbones, and he had his mother's nose.

"What did you want to discuss, Damian?"

"Well, Father. Mother has instructed me to learn from you. She says you are very wise. That you can teach me things my other tutors cannot. Even Grandfather has a deep respect for you. I need to observe your activities, both civilian and otherwise, to fulfill my mission."

Bruce was silent for a long while. "I'll think about it."

"You'll _think_ about it?" Damian was indignant. "What does that even mean?"

"It means that you should go and get some sleep, and we will talk about this tomorrow."

Damian narrowed his eyes, knowing his Father was diverting him. "I would _prefer_ to talk about it now."

Bruce's brow furrowed and he frowned, staring at his son. "Well, there is nothing to discuss because I haven't decided yet."

"Haven't decided? What is there to decide? I am a trained assassin, an al Ghul, and heir to the Demon's Head. I am as prepared as I could ever be, there is not a single aspect of my training that is remiss! I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"If you didn't need anymore training, then why would your mother send you to me?" Bruce said quietly.

"Because she thought I could learn something from you apparently." Damian was getting angry now. He was exhausted-he'd been awake for more than 48 hours, he did not like his Father's giant house that was so empty, he was worried for his Mother, and now this!"

"We'll talk about this in the morning."

"Fine," Damian spat and stalked to his room, seething.

* * *

 **6:22, 4 September  
Wayne Manor, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
Damian's Room**

His initial assessment of the ridiculous bed had been correct. It was uselessly large and far too soft: Damian felt like it was going to swallow him whole. After an hour of shifting around uncomfortably, he had dragged the duvet off the bed and curled up on the floor. It was then, finally, that he had been able to sleep.

But not for long.

Damian's eyes had sprung open in a couple hours; he was never one to be unconscious for long in unfamiliar places. So he rose, stretched, and slipped on his League blacks, grabbed _his bagua dao,_ and found his way to the garden before the sun had even risen.

It was about half an hour later when the sky had turned a warm pink with the morning sun, that Pennyworth found him, as indicated by the opening of the kitchen windows. Damian paid him no mind, instead focusing on the _bagua._ If he lost focus, he would contaminate the eight trigrams and have to start over. Sweat dripped down his nose as he fluidly moved from one pose to another, spinning and using centripetal force in a spiraling motions to quickly change direction and lunge his sword. Mother had recently insisted he start using the full-sized _bagua dao_ , or broadsword, and its heavy weight was straining his arms. But the extra range it gave him was an advantage, so he grit his teeth and carried on.

 **Qián. Duì. Lí. Zhèn. Xùn. Kǎn. Gèn. Kūn**

 **Heaven. Lake. Fire. Thunder. Wind. Water. Mountain. Earth.**

 **Force. Opening. Radiance. Shake. Ground. Gorge. Still. Field.**

Damian completed his Form of the Swimming Dragon and opened his eyes, panting. He could sense his Father watching him from the window with Pennyworth. He ignored them, and sand into the grass, sharpening his sword. The lack of incense bothered him, but he would make do. It was necessary to give one's weapon proper care after exercise.

When he was satisfied with the wicked edge of his sword, he rose and made his way back to the Manor. What he really wanted was a shower, but he could see his Father's silhouette in the window of the kitchen, and decided a morning cup of tea might do him good.

Alfred was making breakfast when he walked in, and Bruce was drinking a cup of coffee while reading the morning paper. He glanced at Damian.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Father. And it _is_ Father for sure now. I checked the DNA sequencing this morning."

Bruce nodded, unsurprised. He must have checked the data himself.

Damian pouted a little as he brewed his tea, adding an extra few rose petals to the leaves. If Pennyworth couldn't choose anything better than substandard Chai brew, he made up for it with a spectacular selection of rose petals.

It was a heavy silence, that settled upon them, until Alfred filled it with polite conversation. "Master Damian, I was expecting you to sleep in this morning. You can't have gotten much rest."

Damian poured himself a cup of tea and huffed. "When travelling to different hemispheres, it's necessary to acclimate to the time change as soon as possible," he said, partly because it was true, and partly because he would never admit to anyone that he had trouble sleeping.

"Indeed," Alfred sighed. "I see you were enjoying some morning exercises."

"Baguazhang?" Bruce asked.

Damian nodded.

Bruce looked thoughtful. "It would be beneficial for someone your size. It does utilize the extra range of the sword to your advantage."

Damian's ears turned pink. He resented being called small. "It doesn't matter what size you are, Baguazhang is useless to anyone if they're not fast. And I am extremely fast," Damian said, somewhat more sharply than he meant to.

"I can see that," Bruce grunted as he stood, tucking the paper under his arm. "Well, I'm heading to the office, Alfred. I'll be home in time for dinner."

Damian rose, too. "Allow me five minutes to bathe and change, Father, and I will accompany you."

"No," Bruce said, and it shocked him. "You'll stay here today, with Alfred."

"What am I supposed to do? I should be observing you!"

Bruce rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Damian, I can't just bring you to work, people will want to know who you are. And Bruce Wayne doesn't have a way to explain a ten year-old son that he has never met before."

"That won't be an issue, then. I'll remain unseen."

"No. You will stay here with Alfred for today. It will take some time to introduce you to Gotham properly."

" _-tt-_ " Damian was definitely annoyed. "What do you expect me to do all day, then? Run around playing _servant_ with Pennyworth?"

Bruce's tone took on a sharp edge. "Alfred is a friend, Damian, not a servant. You will stay at the Manor until I clear you to leave. End of discussion."

Damian opened his mouth to argue, but Father had already turned away, and was gone. The edges of his vision tinged with red, and Damian bit his lip to keep from fuming. He took deep, careful breaths and slowed his heartrate, controlling his anger.

"Perhaps you should wash up and when you return, breakfast will be served," Pennyworth's eyes watched him with an intelligence that was too sharp.

Damian nodded, and spun away, already devising his own plan. A wicked grin spread across his face.

* * *

 **9:35, 4 September  
Wayne Enterprises, Downtown Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
Bruce's Office**

Bruce's phone rang, and he looked down on the screen to see Alfred calling. He had asked the butler to check in with him every few hours, but it had only been at the office for 95 minutes. He frowned, but answered on the first ring. "What is it, Alfred?"

"It's Master Damian, sir. He's gone."


	4. The Son of Satan is My Brother?

_Sorry this took so long!_

 _Haha, to tell you the truth, there was a bit of a gap in my plot. I've actually written most of the next four chapters, so you can expect those in quick succession. But man, I just had a really hard time getting this where it needed to be._

 _As always, comments are appreciated!_

 _Thanks to Baronofthesky for noticing the formatting issues and letting me know._

 _Ru fi sittiin alf dahya! - ROO -fee-sit-TEEN-AILF DAY-EE-YAH - Burn in sixty thousand hells! - روح في ستين (ألف) داهية_

* * *

 **9:45, 4 September  
** **Wayne Enterprises, Downtown Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
** **Bruce's Office**

His father's office was not at all what he had been expecting, but the more he thought about it, the more Bruce's double life made sense. It would be aggravating to have to deal with Gotham's civilian population making demands on a daily basis, so it was necessary to keep Batman from them. But what Damian found most annoying was the charade Bruce Wayne played. Why did he go off gallivanting for the public, parading himself around at social functions? It was demeaning and pathetic and below his station. Why even be Bruce Wayne at all?

Damian estimated he had about seven minutes before his father figured out he was in his office, so he made the most of his time. He sat at his father's large desk, and activated the computer. The system was protected by a fingerprint scanner and voice recognition software. It was enough to deter most civilians, but not a skilled assassin. Damian fished the fingerprint he lifted from his father's coffee cup this morning, and cleared his throat.

"Bruce Wayne," he said in his father's voice.

The screen lit up, and Damian began searching through his father's network. He had surprising wealth for one man, even if the money he allocated for "Research and Development" was such a completely obvious cover for his father's exploits as Batman, he wondered how no one had figured it out yet. Lucius Fox was listed as the head of the department, so surely he knew that Bruce Wayne was the Batman… he tucked the information away for later use.

The rest of the business was decidedly uninteresting for a worldwide company. Bruce Wayne managed it efficiently and was surprisingly attentive and detailed when it came to his work life. Damian found the whole thing rather dull. That is, until he typed in a line of code that dug deep into Bruce's files and started shifting around some more interesting material. Damian leaned forward. Now this could make for some interesting reading.

Bruce Wayne stepped into his office, shutting the doors firmly behind him. Damian glanced at the clock. It had only been five minutes.

His father hadn't turned around yet, so Damian kept reading as fast as he could.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce growled.

"Just some light reading. You look worried, Father. Something wrong?" Damian knew he really shouldn't have goaded his father, but it felt good to get back at him for leaving his son behind.

Bruce turned around slowly, blue eyes blazing. "I told you to stay at the Manor with Alfred. I told you to that you cannot be seen here with me. I told you to wait until I had everything under control."

"And I told you that no one would see me," Damian snipped back. "And no one did."

"That's not the point!" Bruce thundered.

"I will not wait around and do nothing while I have a mission to fulfill."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "You are going back to the Manor."

Damian glared, and stood from his father's desk, closing the file he had been working through. "Why? I'm already here."

Ignoring him, Bruce pulled out his phone, and called Alfred. He answered immediately.

"Sir?"

"He's here at the office, Alfred."

"Oh, well. At least he's safe," Alfred sounded relieved. "Did anything… exciting happen?"

"No, Alfred. He wasn't seen. I need you to come get him. Quickly."

"Of course, sir. I'm on way now."

"Good."

"Master Bruce?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

"One last thing. It may be beneficial to ring Master Dick. He would surely offer any assistance–"

"No, Alfred. I can take care of this."

A tired sigh. "As you wish."

 **10:05, 4 September  
** **Wayne Enterprises, Downtown Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
** **Wayne Enterprises Parking Garage**

Damian's glare was incredibly familiar to Alfred. A similar look had been directed at him for a majority of Bruce's adolescence. Rather than make him uncomfortable, as no doubt was its purpose, it made him rather nostalgic. As he pulled the car around, he caught sight of the pair, and the breath was pulled from his old lungs. Father stood looming over son, with a stormy expression on his face that was nearly identical to the expression on the child's face. They looked breathtakingly similar, despite the few differences that marked Damian as an al Ghul.

Bruce pulled open the door with an angry yank. "You are going with Alfred. You will stay with Alfred for the rest of the day. You will not leave his care. You will do as he says."

Damian scoffed as he slid into the seat and crossed his arms, "-tt-"

A thundercloud passed over Bruce's face, and his voice rumbled powerfully, "You will do this or there will be consequences."

Bruce faltered for a millisecond when Damian recoiled minutely, but was too angry to analyze it further. He shut the door more gently than he opened it, and walked up to the window to talk to Alfred.

"Thanks for coming, Alfred."

"Of course, Master Bruce."

"Keep an eye on him. I want a full report when I return."

Alfred arched an eyebrow at Bruce. He knew the words weren't for him, but for the boy in the back seat, but this wasn't a tactic Bruce had used since Jason was young. "Alright. Dinner is at 8:15. Do not be late."

Bruce didn't say anything, but shot Alfred a look that said when am I ever late for dinner?

 **20:32, 4 September  
** **Wayne Manor, Gotham, South Dakota, United States of America  
** **Dining Hall**

Bruce was late for dinner.

Alfred watched sadly as the boy who sat alone at the table that was far too large for one person, got angrier and angrier. It was something he'd seen many times, with Dick, Barbara, Jason, Stephanie, Tim–even Cassandra. He wasn't a stranger to their anger, pain, and loneliness. But that didn't make it any easier to bear.

With a dignified huff, Damian stood, nearly toppling over his chair. "I'm not hungry."

"Bruce shall be home soon."

"I don't care when he'll be home. That has nothing to do with me. Take this disgusting slop away from me at once. I wouldn't be able to stomach it."

Alfred began clearing the table, not minding the insults. He'd make a couple plated and store them visibly in the fridge, so when the boy inevatably came late that night for his meal, he'd find it waiting. The old butler was no stranger to these antics. He'd done this a time or two.

Damian stormed down to the cave while Alfred cleared the table from supper. When the place was tidy again, Alfred looked at his watch and sighed. Bruce was an hour later than he'd promised. Alfred gave him a call.

"Agent 1," Bruce answered almost immediately. He sounded winded. "I'm at the Tower. I just got a call from-"

"You missed dinner," Alfred cut him off.

"I know, Alfred and I'm sorry. Tim called, and they're coming back early from their mission on Mogo. The Titans should be back on-planet in a few hours."

"Bruce, I know all this because I know you, but Damian does not. All he knows is that his father didn't come to dinner when he said he would."

Bruce was quiet for a minute. Then, "I'm sorry, Alfred. It was unavoidable."

"I know that. You know that. But young Master Damian does not. And he won't know it until you tell it to him. He deserves that."

"I know, Alfred."

"You have four children, Master Bruce. I should think you'd know a thing or two about raising them by now."

"I learned from the best, Alfred. I've got to go. The kids are calling."

"Come home safe, Master Bruce."

"I always do."

Bruce hung up before Alfred could scoff at him. The nerve! Alfred couldn't even begin to count the number of times Bruce had come home bruised, bleeding, and barely alive! As he wiped his hands and removed his apron to go downstairs and join Damian, Alfred decided Bruce would need an old fashioned talking to when he got home.

Alfred was lost in thought as he entered the Cave, but was pulled out of his nostalgia by a thunderous quiet. Damian had come down here to train. There was no noise. Alfred did a quick search of the Cave, but the sinking feeling in his stomach seemed to be confirming what he suspected.

Grumbling to himself as he hurried up the stairs, Alfred was breathless by the time he burst into Damian's room. He really was too old to be running around like this. His eyes were instantly drawn to the desk, where Damian's twin Khopesh had been so proudly displayed earlier. They were gone.

"Bloody hell."

Alfred pulled is phone out of his pocket and dialed his eldest grandson. God help them all. He needed a drink.

 **21:41, 4 September  
** **Highway 6, Blüdhaven, South Dakota, United States of America  
** **Dick Grayson's Car**

To his friends, Dick Grayson seemed like a flighty man. A good man, sure. But a man you could count on to show up on time to your niece's birthday? No. It was a regular habit of his to not answer his phone. Like, ever. But it was hard to stay angry at him, with his charming smile and sincere apologies. It was easiest to just assume that Dick Grayson was a mess, and to leave it at that.

Lieutenant Amy Rohrbach wasn't so easily convinced. The more she watched her partner, the more she saw the darkness in his eyes, the anger he kept simmering right under the surface. He worked hard to appear so effortlessly flirtatious, of this she was certain. Over the weeks they'd spent together as officers on the BCPD, Amy felt that she was only just beginning to glimpse at the real Dick Grayson. And there was something she'd learned, and today just confirmed it: there was one person that Dick always answered the phone for and his name was Alfred Pennyworth.

Dick rubbed his face and concentrated on the mesmerizing lights of the highway. It had been a long day: Roland Desmond's guys had beat him to a pulp last night, he'd been late for work, his partner Amy had been keeping a close eye on him lately, and now this. Alfred had called, asking for his help. Dick couldn't refuse Alfred, especially because he never asked for help.

And so, he'd sent an apologetic text to Kori, cancelling their date, and was now speeding to Gotham city. Alfred had been purposefully vague only saying that Bruce had beentemporarily watching a boy named Damian, and that the kid had somehow gotten out.

Dick had been suspicious right from the start. The way Alfred had emphasized the temporariness of the situation, the fact that there was another kid… he wondered if Bruce had found yet another orphan to adopt. Honestly, it wouldn't be surprising at this point. What was surprising was the fact that the kid had somehow managed to give Alfred the slip… he knew Tim and Bruce were off-planet, so Dick knew why he was being called in… but to be completely honest he was a bit annoyed with this kid.

It didn't take long before Dick was speeding over one of the many bridges that marked the entrance to Gotham. The city seemed to welcome him home, tugging at the dark corners of his soul. Sighing, Dick pinched his nose. He had a headache.

It was almost scary, how great timing Alfred had, but Dick didn't have the time to really ponder it. "Hey, Alfred. Found him yet?"

"Indeed. He's over on Gainsly and 6th. You'll need to hurry, though Master Dick. He's in a spot of trouble."

"I'm on it, Alfie."

Dick spun the wheel, turning sharply to make it down Reatton, so he could cut over to Gainsly. He skidded to a halt that would have made Jason proud, and leapt out of the car, palming an escrima stick, just in case.

Great. The kid had run off to the shady part of Gotham, and had chosen a condemned building for his runaway hideout. Typical kid.

"Damian?" he called, slowly approaching the building. "Damian?"

The telltale sound of someone getting beaten to a pulp had Dick's heart drop. Was someone whaling on the kid?

Glass shattered and an ear-piercing scream cut through the crisp night air, and before Dick could really register what was happening, a man fell to the ground about 10 feet away. Someone had thrown him out the window.

That someone was nimbly climbing down the building, glinting metal in their hands–shit were those swords? The figure was clothed in a strange material that seemed to cloak the figure in shadows and make it difficult to pinpoint where he actually was. But as the figure approached the fallen man, Dick's gut proved to be right. It was just a kid. A kid who was raising these weird curved swords and was preparing to kill the man.

Holy shit, this kid was–

"Damian!" the name burst from Dick's lips, and it seemed to work. The kid froze in surprise, turning to face the idiot who dare disrupt his justice.

Dick shivered as the young face turned towards him, mostly covered by the same dark cloth except his eyes. And those eyes. They were a burning blue, and the accompanying glare would be enough to send a grown man running.

"Who are you?' the kid growled, and Dick was in Nightwing mode, analyzing the tension in his small shoulders, the cracking voice, the viscous glare. The kid was serious. He needed to diffuse the situation. Now.

"I'm Dick. Bruce adopted me, too. Now, let's put that guy down–"

The kid's eyes narrowed at his name, and he interrupted before Dick could ask him nicely to put the man down. "Richard Grayson?"

Dick blinked, surprised.

"Mother said you were the first, the best. Why, if you trained beneath my Father, are you asking me to let this scum" Damian spat the word, "live?"

The world seemed to simultaneously speed up and slow down for Dick Grayson. So many thoughts were racing through his head at once. He knows Bruce is Batman. He knows I'm Nightwing. Who is his mother? He really will kill that man if I don't stop him. How should I stop him? How old is this kid? Where did he learn to fight? He knows Bruce is Batman.

But one word rang out louder among the rest. Father. Father. Father.

Oh, hell no.

Dick took a stab in the dark. "Your father sent me to come get you."

"Father is too busy to come himself, so he sends one of his little brood?" something about the condescension in Damian's voice, the disdain that dripped from each word really rubbed Dick the wrong way, and he grit his teeth.

"Well he wouldn't have had to if you hadn't run away like a child–" Wrong thing to say. Shit.

Damian's eyes flashed and he arched his swords downwards, moving to decapitate the man, and Dick saw the intention in his eyes an instant before it would be too late, and launched his escrima stick and watched it crash into the swords and knock them out of the kids hands.

The young face whipped around to glare at him, and he snarled, like actual honest to God animal noises, and all of a sudden Dick was under attack by a fury of strikes, hits, and he geared himself into action before Damian could wrangle him into a joint lock.

Holy shit, this kid was fast. And trained. He moved with a practiced ease that belied his strength and training. Dick twisted and ducked out of reach, but the kid was on him again. Dick really didn't have the time or the patience to figure out just how fast this kid was, and instead used his superior size and strength to his advantage. The nest time the kid went for a joint lock, Dick grabbed his arm, and twisted contorting his own body until Damian was unbalanced and fell, and Dick landed on top of him.

The kid was still viscous, maybe even worse now that he was immobile, was snarling and shouting "Ru fi sittiin alf dahya!"

"That didn't sound very nice," Dick grunted, as he managed to wrestle the kid into a headlock of his own. "Now, listen to me. Alfred is very worried about where you are–Ow! Did you just bite me? Get a grip, kid. We are going back. I will tie you up and drag you there myself if I have to, but I won't if you just get in the car, okay?"

Dick waited, panting for the kid to stop struggling in his hold. Finally, he was still. Dick looked him in the eye. "You good?" The kid nodded, eyes burning. Dick rolled off of him. "Great, now let's get to–"

CRACK!

Dick went sprawling as a small foot connected with and broke his nose. He reached up to touch it and the blood pouring down his front lip, and he frowned. He was angry now.

"You little brat."


End file.
